Looking at birds from a hide at Arne ...

Two years ago, we joined the RSPB - we'd often visited the sanctuary at Arne - you drive along a narrow lane to get there, past woods and heathland - tall thorn hedges line the sides of the  lane - Army helicopters fly low in the sky - they circle over the firing ranges, where tanks prowl through windblown bracken -

Sometimes, at night, inside the Old School House, we hear the sound of heavy guns - it is as though immense wardrobes full of lead are being dropped onto the ground - the windows shake - 

I still know very little about birds - Penny, however, can identify most birds we see - she'll hear a bird singing, lost in the intricate lichened branches of an alder tree - she'll smile - she'll say - that's a thrush or - that's a warbler - 

I look up at the flights of birds against the clouds - I stand there, above the beach at Shipstal Point, like an augur upon the Capitoline Hill - what portents should I be divining from the clever manoevures of these gulls?

Later, we make our way to the hide - we pass by fine boned does, half hidden under knotted oaks - a stag with razor sharp antlers guarded these delicate, quivering, creatures - its splendid, brutal, head swung round to follow us - its eyes were like dark jewels -

Within the hide, we looked out over the pale lagoon - I looked through Penny's binoculars - there, in magical, silent, clarity, were the birds - they were like messengers from another world, each with a different secret -